Sunday, June 15, 2008

Swing Down Memory Lane

Within an hour of my arrival at Thursday’s swing party, another one of Erick’s muscle-bound, “Gaiety material” friends appeared. Sauntering through the door he looked my way, flashed a catlike grin, so I soon walked up and introduced myself, received a kiss on both cheeks. “Very European,” I noted, though he turned out to be Puerto Rican with his own “entertainment company.” “So you’re a stripper,” I guessed. “Not anymore, but I used to be,” he replied. “You worked the gay clubs because that’s where the money is,” I added, reading the open book. He was somewhat surprised that I knew the hustling spots all the way to Chicago so I explained I’d been in a relationship with a guy who danced at the Gaiety. “I worked the Gaiety!” the stud declared wide-eyed. “Who?” When I told him he laughed then added, “I know Dave very, very well.”

Why I’d never met Gio until then was a mystery since we knew all the same sex industry workers going back nearly a decade. When I brought up David’s former boy toy Cameron who couldn’t stand me (no love lost as I thought him a stuck up drug addict) Gio gave a knowing smile. “A lot of people didn’t like Cameron.” By the time he asked to check out my ass, inspecting my butt cheeks beneath my blue undies with firm hands as he inquired if I do anal, I knew I could overlook the fact that he was too nice to be my type. I’d be getting some action tonight.

Or maybe not. I was hanging out with Jude, who I’d taken with me the evening before to a press screening of Catherine Breillat’s predictably boring “The Last Mistress,” when a cute, young Asian chick arrived by herself. “She likes Gio, too,” Jude whispered. Well, any girl with the guts to go to a swing party alone surely deserved whatever cock she desired! Wrapped in a white towel she took a seat on the couch in front of the bad porn. Curious, I joined Jude who’d gone over to greet her. Turns out the woman’s husband worked for a company in Dubai and knew exactly how she filled her free time without him. You go (Gio), girl!

While the Gaiety boy and the single swinger went to get it on near the curtained massage table on the other side of the room I chatted with beautiful twink Andre, offering that my friend Roxanne would eat him up. Inspired I decided to call her so she could practice her Italian on him. “He’s twenty-one,” I added once I had her on the line. “Oh, wow,” she sighed like a mooning schoolgirl (after excitedly disclosing the best thing about the “green” man – yes he was rich and older but he also owned an environmental company – she was seeing. That he had two sons, ages twenty-one and twenty-three. “They’re of legal age!” she explained, making it O.K.).

Since the single chick proved to be an insatiable nymphomaniac, monopolizing Gio’s dick for most of the night, it’s a good thing the master and slave arrived to give me something to do. Luckily I’d stopped by Pandora’s beforehand so I had a flogger and paddle on hand (swingers bring condoms, kinksters bring equipment) which I used on the master’s pig-tailed, white stocking and red heel wearing wife after he’d bound her with an orange extension cord Gio had found on the second floor. The husband, soft-spoken and sporting a long dark ponytail, who hailed from Albuquerque and had been in the scene nearly twenty-five years, nodded that he recognized me though I’d never seen him before. (After he’d politely asked Erick if he could use the decorative birch twigs arranged innocuously in a vase I knew he knew what he was doing.) I verbally humiliated his slave a bit (“You nasty whore!”) while she was getting fucked by one of the random white guys at the party while her master covered her mouth to stifle her moans. I was way more jealous of this woman as she sucked off another dude while her master slapped her ass than I was of the single girl getting her pussy licked by the Gaiety stud.

Taking a break I found Liquid wandering the party like a lost soul, looking devastated. “I haven’t had sex once – and I use three holes!” she announced to the busy room. “This is really sad.” I suddenly felt guilty. Here I was flogging a chick in front of bisexual Liquid – and I don’t even like girls. But there was no time for sorrow as another bodybuilder arrived. As I put down my paddle Jude jokingly declared, “Hands off! He’s mine,” then gave the guy a big hug. “Doesn’t he look like a Bollywood star?” she asked me, running her hands over the clean cut Indian’s bulging biceps. I nodded though he struck me as more Wall Street than Calcutta, especially with a California accent to rival Liquid’s. When I went to the bathroom to get a bottle of alcohol for Star (who was on her sixth or seventh victim of the night and couldn’t be bothered to leave the well-pounded mattress) I noticed Gio had been granted a much-deserved break. He came over to give me a devouring kiss. I breathed a sigh of relief that his lips didn’t taste icky then knelt to the floor and opened wide in nostalgic longing for big Gaiety cock. After I’d used my tongue from head to shaft, gotten him all ready for another round, I rose to my feet.

“You’ve got some wild mouth there,” he stated a twinkle in his eye. “You know what I haven’t done in a long time?” I reminisced. “What?” “Two guys. You know anyone?” I asked. Gio nodded with certainty then inquired, “Do you like Brazilians?” Uh, hell yeah! I took Gio’s number then got scared. “Not Victor!” I cried, remembering the last Brazilian hooker I got hooked up with – an aggressive, six-foot tall thug with a foot-long dick who was best kept a safe fantasy. “Nah, not Victor,” Gio assured, adding that the guy he had in mind wasn’t juiced up like that, wasn’t even a stripper in fact. Happily I returned to the mattress where the Bollywood star lay naked, still chatting with Jude, and urged me to join him. The cougar had to leave so she gave her blessing for us to have fun then said goodbye to the master and his slave, exchanging emails so they could arrange for a more intimate S&M encounter. I tweaked the guy’s nipple piercing, toyed a bit with his dark-skinned dick as he removed my tank top to kiss my tits – then told him to jerk himself off. It was all too straight-laced for me.

The following evening paled in comparison to the previous night’s exploits (especially since Erick had decided “Tonight’s theme is foot fetish - encourage that!” Ugh!), with only a middle-aged couple from Montenegro – he a big burly bear, she his high-hairdo, bottle-blonde, pot-smoking girlfriend of ten years (“She’s not my wife,” he’d corrected when I’d mistaken his mistress for such) – to while away the time watching. It was so slow we all ended up gathered around the new video monitor, more exciting than the urban porn, voyeuristically viewing Erick’s conversation with a couple guys outside. “Wow – look how short those guys are!” Liquid exclaimed. “Yeah, it’s almost like he’s talking to midgets,” I agreed. As I made my way over to the curtained boudoir area to see if anyone besides Star was getting any action, another one of Erick’s black personal trainer friends (in baseball cap, muscles announcing themselves from a wife-beater T) approached me. “I’ve seen you around. Are you a fighter?” he inquired. Noting that this most definitely was not a pick up line I asked where he trained. “All over.” I told him he might have seen me doing pad work and light sparring at Crunch. I thought of last night’s master. Why did everyone seem to recognize me from somewhere?

But I didn’t have time to ponder this puzzle as the midgets arrived with Erick – well, not midgets, just a couple of very short queens who climbed the stairs behind two of Erick’s very tall friends who were lugging an air conditioner to the top floor. One of the fags was an older man in leather boots and straw cowboy hat, his companion a young, nervous, hand waving Nelly who couldn’t stop asking questions. At first I got a kick out of them – especially when I found out they were looking to move their gay sex party to Erick’s pad after having been booted from the S&M club Paddles – but the drama twink soon began to grate on my nerves. “And you work with Erick? What kind of party is this? See – our real issue is a clothes check because we have sixty people and those lockers are just much too small,” he motored on and on as if his fuck fest were “Vanity Fair” at the Oscars. I was hoping the grey-haired master in cowboy hat would pull a gag from his back jeans pocket, but alas, no such luck. Erick shot me a look of “Why the hell are you still talking to them? Get them out, out!” so since I was leaving anyway I suggested we talk on our way downstairs where I blew them each kisses as we parted. I headed for the subway glad I would never be that kind of a queer.

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About Me

Lauren Wissot is a film critic and journalist, filmmaker and programmer, and a contributing editor at Filmmaker magazine. Her work can also be regularly read at Salon, The Rumpus, Hammer to Nail, and
Documentary Magazine.
Under My Master's Wings, a memoir about her time spent as the personal slave to a gay-for-pay stripper, is available from Random House sub-imprint Nexus Books. All interested agents, production companies and sugar daddies should contact laurenvile@yahoo.com.